


Doppelganger

by yeaka



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-04
Updated: 2014-10-04
Packaged: 2018-02-19 19:48:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2400725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom tries to move forward in a different way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Doppelganger

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This isn’t historically accurate or properly British.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Downton Abbey or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He isn’t Sybil. He’s almost as different from her as it’s possible to be—he’s a man, for starters, taller but stronger. Even though sometimes the light makes his colouring the same—dark hair on pale skin with bright, piercing eyes—his expression always ruins that. Thomas smirks where Sybil would smile, scowls where she would frown, sneers for trivial reasons that would’ve left her laughing. But he still misses her. More than the others pretend to. They don’t talk about her because of it. 

Or because of this. Because what Tom Branson is doing to Thomas Barrow should feel _so very wrong_ and doesn’t anymore. He’s not sure if it’s because it’s been too long to remember how she felt or if it’s because she never felt anything like this. He could never be with another woman, he knows that; or at least, he couldn’t imagine it right now. But Thomas doesn’t have the soft curves or supple shape that would make him remember, and so it’s easier to get hard and sink inside and pretend everything’s okay. 

It still feels good. Maybe it shouldn’t, but it does. When he’s all the way inside, it doesn’t matter who it is; it’s stifling hot, velvety walls sucking at his core, clenching around him—he’s sure Thomas does it on purpose. He buries his face in Thomas’ shoulder and neck and inhales the musky scent of pure _man_ , run ragged and sweating from the throws of servitude. How Tom used to be. Although, Thomas was never quite like Tom, not in anything. 

Thomas groans and turns his face to the side in the pillows, back arching beneath Tom’s stomach. Thomas’ arse lifts, and Tom takes the cue, sliding half out, then slamming back in—never any need to hold back—he bruises Thomas in his efforts, _hard_ , and _fast_ and unforgiving. Thomas moans like he loves it, perfect lips twitching up at the end. He is beautiful, in a way. Flushed like this, bangs sticking to his forehead. His fingers fist in the white sheets, the other set running over Tom’s hips. Tom wraps his arms around Thomas’ body and pulls him closer—more heat he can barely stand—and it feels better for each centimeter they close. He missed this. Having someone. Holding someone. Being so close it’s hard to stand. His thrusts become so vigorous that the blankets tumble over his arse, and he has to reach back to pull them back up over his hips. Some semblance of modesty. 

“ _Ahhhh_...” Thomas breathes, grunts something, maybe a name, but stops. They haven’t done that yet. He looks back at Tom through thick lashes, then closes them again, and Tom looks away; he’s not sure how far he wants to escalate this. He means to burrow into Thomas’ shoulder for a distraction, but he winds up opening his mouth instead, teeth grazing down the skin, biting a shallow mark just below Thomas’ hairline. The livery will cover it: always does. Finally a use for collars. Some days it’s hard to look at Thomas all dressed, knowing what’s underneath. He digs his fingers into Thomas’ hips hard enough to leave marks that’ll linger for days, and not for the first time, he thinks of rolling Thomas over. Looking Thomas in the eyes when they fuck. Feeling Thomas’ hard cock against his stomach. Licking at Thomas’ nipples, letting Thomas worship his chest, kissing his way along Thomas’ strong cheekbones and nipping at his chin. But that all sounds so very _intimate_ , and as much as Tom’s body screams for another adventure, another wild plunge off a dangerous cliff into the arms of a tantalizing, forbidden lover, he doesn’t know how much more he can really take. He already feels spread so thin. Thank the lord for Thomas pretending not to care. 

Thomas hisses, “Branson,” which always makes Tom want to tease, _Mr. Barrow._ But he knows what it means and he’s too far along not to listen. He’s stewing in his own turmoil whilst burning up from the pleasure that is fucking Thomas’ perfect arse, and he knows he’s got to be fair. He makes his way down Thomas’ taut stomach, through a mat of coarse curls and down a long, very hard shaft. He uses his other arm to lift Thomas off the bed just enough to get a good grip, then he slams his cock inside Thomas and Thomas’ cock into his hand all in one go. Thomas screams in his arms, arches back into him, claws at his hip and moans in delight. It shouldn’t sound as good as it does, but it makes Tom feel _so good to hear._ Every time he makes Thomas Barrow come undone he feels like a god. It drives him to do better. He pumps and twists Thomas’ engorged cock, lubed only with their sweat, and he fucks Thomas’ tight arse with everything he has. He’s distantly aware that the bed frame’s banging against the wall, but it doesn’t seem to matter. 

Thomas is cursing. He’s spewing nonsense into the pillow in between moans and panted breath, and it’s music to Tom’s ears. Tom’s close, so close. He shifts to the other side of Thomas’ neck and bites in harder, knowing Thomas loves it. Even if he could never say it. Neither of them could. Thomas can’t even pretend to respect him in front of other servants, but it doesn’t matter, because in the dead of night, Thomas Barrow is _his_ to devour. 

He comes with a torrential scream that he buries in Thomas’ skin, hips thrusting forward to shove Thomas deep into the mattress. The pleasure ripples through him, heating taking over, vision washing out for a moment or two while his cock milks itself out inside his lover. For those few seconds, all he can feel is the blissful relief, a numb joy that eclipses everything else. Nothing like the rest of his existence. He holds onto it with white knuckles for as long as he can, until there’s nothing left, and he’s tumbling back down from the heavens. 

Thomas spills into his hand, shuddering beneath him. He knows Thomas is coming too, and he wants to turn them around to see properly, to watch Thomas’ face in the midst of an orgasm, probably more beautiful than ever. But he’s too tired and he doesn’t want to move. 

When they’re both done, he still doesn’t, and he stays, heavy atop Thomas’ sticky body, heaving for air. Eventually, Thomas asks, level and leading, “Should I stay the night again?”

Tom just barely has the wherewithal to ask, “Did you get in trouble last time?”

“You think I’m dumb enough to get caught?”

Tom doesn’t answer, which is a ‘yes,’ Thomas can stay. He’s quite aware of how dreadfully clever— _too clever_ —Thomas Barrow is. And Thomas wants to stay or he wouldn’t have asked like that, and it’s too much work to deny him.

So Tom makes himself pull out and roll over onto his side. The blankets come with him, all tangled, and for the relief of pressure around his now-flagging cock, he can’t help but feel like he’s lost something. When he’s not physically joined, he feels more... alone. 

Thomas rolls over, taking half the expensive sheets and blankets with him. It leaves Tom with the view of his back again, but the option to wrap up around him. Extra body heat that Tom doesn’t need. 

He does need it. He needs this. He wants to apologize, but he’s done that before, and Thomas would just say the same things again—it’s not right or perfect for either of them, but that’s the world they live in. Sometimes, it’s still enough.

Tom flicks off the bedside lamp, returning the room to the pale-blue glow of moonlight, then rolls up to Thomas’s back. He keeps his arms tucked into himself. He waits, instead, for Thomas to give in and roll to face him, tired and handsome and worn out from a long day’s work and amazing sex. He puts one of his hands over Tom’s and squeezes: the short, easy form of comfort when Thomas is too tired and Tom’s too guilt-ridden to cuddle. Thomas closes his eyes, and Tom waits for him to sleep. 

Only then does Tom pet his hair and kiss his forehead and wonder when, if soon, they can take that wild plunge.


End file.
